


A Phantosmia of Copper

by Acai



Category: haikyuu
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, Relapse, Triggers, bokuakakuroken, progress - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-06
Updated: 2016-12-05
Packaged: 2018-09-06 20:34:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8768305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Acai/pseuds/Acai
Summary: In which relapse, progress, and recovery are all necessary to fully heal, and the downfall that comes with overcoming the past is manageable when you're in a home full of people who love you.
[One chapter for each of the three stages of overcoming mental relapse.]





	

**Author's Note:**

> This chapter will focus solely on the "relapse" stage of overcoming mental relapse pertaining to trauma from the past. The focus of this story is PTSD and how it never fully goes away, and even the smallest of things can bring it back as if you never got better at all. 
> 
> Alternatively Titled: In which the only way to win is to find closure and I use fanfiction to work through a mangled moment of the past that I cannot recall in full detail.

            When it had first happened and Kuroo had been blanketed with sterile smells and a cacophony of noises that he couldn’t place, he’d reassured himself over and over again with the mental insistence that it would all be over soon. He had been sure that soon—though that soon would take weeks or months—the pain would be gone and his head would be quieted and calm once more. There had been an infinite amount of certainty to the belief. He had researched the gaping holes in his memory—a stretch of time before the incident, a stretch of time after the incident, and the internet had assured him that he would recall those moments in due time. The internet promised him that he would shake off the bitter fear that dug into his gut like a knife and that he would quell the clamor in his head that insisted on replaying the moments over and over and over again. There wasn’t a whole lot to replay, either. In his mind played the same four moments over and over again, like a broken record. Silence, a phantosmia of copper, blood, and his feet pounding against pavement. Little pieces sometimes stirred themselves in, the feel of his feet hitting gravel as he kept running, the creak of a wooden door being flung open, desperate shouting from somewhere far-off, and a car horn blasting loudly, loudly, loudly.

The wounds went away quickly. In fact, there’s barely been any wounds at all. He’d gotten through all of it without even a concussion, how lucky was that? Surely there was a deity somewhere who had been watching over him, wasn’t he so glad?

(Everybody else was hurt. He remembers tears and shouting and blood soaking through shirts and limps and groans of pain. He wasn’t hurt. He doesn’t feel lucky.)

He was discharged quickly and went home. Kuroo remembered pretending to sleep on the way home, but it had only been an excuse to squeeze his eyes shut and curl his fists in the blankets to stop his shaking as he tried to fall asleep for real, as he tried to pretend like he wasn’t driving at all but sleeping soundly in bed back home.

(Nobody would tell him how everybody else was. He got a phone call around midnight, and the voice on the other end is crying as she tells him about stitches and pain and doctors. His mind replayed the blood dribbling down her face and the way that he could see her skull through the gash.)

Weeks turned into months, months turned into half a year, half a year turned into a full year.

Had he recovered? Kuroo considered that debatable. Cars honking still sent his mind into a spiraling frenzy of fear and distant memories of yelling and pleading and bleeding and begging and slipping on gravel. Driving still sent a knife into his gut. His head still played the memories over and over and over every night when he tried to fall asleep. His stomach still churned when he glanced in the mirror and saw the little white scar on the bridge of his nose, still plummeted when he saw the giant red scar on her forehead. He still felt anxiety crawl up his arms in little pinpricks when he heard somebody yell from somewhere far-off.

But he didn’t tremble any longer, didn’t shake or tense. The anxiety would shoot up his throat and then sizzle down like the fizz in soda, slowly fading away. The memories didn’t invoke fear anymore—in fact, they’d grown blurrier and blurrier until all he really remembered was the taste of copper in his mouth, the blackness that he had seen, and a soft fuzzy feeling in his nose.

He was willing to call that progress enough. He had lost the certainty that he would recover. In fact, Kuroo had grown more certain that he never _would._ But there were things that made it all easier, that made him forget to recall those memories at night when he fell asleep.

He would progress, little by little, even if it was hard. It had only been a little over a year—he could only go up.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Kuroo was three years into college when he saw him again. Kuroo hadn’t seen him since the white walls of a hospital he’d long since forgotten and the smell of disinfectant that had given him headaches. Him, him, him, him, him, him, him—it was _him, him, him, him, him, who did all of this. His fault, his fault, his fault, his fault!_ It was _him, him, him, him, him who caused everything!_ Kuroo would still be _okay_ if it weren’t for him. This never would have happened if it weren’t for _him._

Kuroo flew at him, tooth and claw, tearing him up and inflicting all the pain that he’d ever caused anybody else, grinding him to dust the way that he’d ruined the lives of everybody there that day—

And then Kuroo shook the images out of his head, still standing calmly where he was the moment his eyes had settled on the man. The man, typing calmly on his laptop, glanced up to check the clock hanging on the wall of the coffee shop. His eyes glide over Kuroo, pausing a moment to make eye contact. He remembered. He knew. He knew exactly who Kuroo was. He raised a hand in greeting, and then calmly went back to typing.

Kuroo’s stomach _churned._ His head _ached._ His feet felt heavy and immobile—how could he possibly walk out and carry on with his life? Everything was coming back, he felt it all in his mind swirling back, everything that he’d forgotten and—and—and—the blood and her skull and the crying and the running—

Kuroo turned around and walked out calmly, thanking the woman who held the door open for him.

He skipped class, going back home.

Somebody was sitting at the counter in the kitchen, typing. Kuroo felt pinpricks of anger, before his imaginary hackles lower and his mind reminds him that it’s just Akaashi working on a paper, that’s he’s standing in his own kitchen and his boyfriend is there for another hour until he has to leave for class. Akaashi glances up, pausing in his typing to raise an eyebrow.

“Attendance wasn’t mandatory and I have a paper to finish that I need some extra time on,” he lied, as if Akaashi wouldn’t be able to figure out that there was no way he’d walked all the way to campus and back in the time that it had taken him. Kuroo wondered if his voice sounded as distant as it felt when he tacked on another fabrication. “They put too much flavor into this—you can have it, or save it for Bokuto…he likes this one, I think.”

Kuroo remembered that his laptop was still on the coffee table _after_ he’d curled up in bed, blankets piled on top of him as if they could really barricade the memories away.

The memories got through his pitiful defense, flooding into his head and making his arms shake and his legs tense up until they were trembling from tenseness alone. A sick feeling burrowed in his stomach and his head felt like it was somewhere far away.

Kuroo hadn’t remembered in years—he hadn’t been _bothered_ by any of it in years. He’d never been a fan of driving, and had always refused road trips, but it was more out of distant worry than fear. And he’d never liked car horns or blood, but he’d coped with it all well enough that he could move on without even getting shaky hands.

All it took was one glance at that man’s face and suddenly Kuroo was worse than he was in that sterile white hospital room.

(They were all hurt so badly, he remembered blood soaking through a shirt—his friend had taken his shirt off to give to her to staunch the bleeding. He had thought it was only a little cut, but when he’d come running back from getting help it had been a bloody gash all the way to the skull—that’s right, he ran and got help because he was okay. He’d run along the pavement and to the gravel—he could remember the feel of the gravel, but not the noise of running on it, the memories were all silent—the wooden decorations in the grass had seemed to mock him as somebody yelled desperately from far off, a wooden door creaked loudly as it was flung open. He remembered blood and crying and the smell of copper and bruises—bruises, he’d had a giant bruise running along the length of his arm, his back had ached for weeks because of whiplash, but it hadn’t been anything compared to the blood and concussions and—)

Kuroo made a muffled noise, shoving his face into his pillow and trying desperately to stop the shaking trembles that ran through his entire body. Why now? Why after so long? Why—

The door to their room creaked open and Kuroo stilled; it wasn’t really a fear of being caught shaking like a cold child so much as the noise that sent his mind right back, but he didn’t particularly mind the fact. Weight settled onto his back and Akaashi’s unamused voice mingled with the silence. “How’s the paper coming?”

“Great,” Kuroo muttered, voice muffled by the pillow.

“I’m glad,” his voice was dry, lilting with disapproval. “I thought you had an exam today? You know, the one that you complained about for a solid week? Correct me, but I wasn’t aware that exams were—,”

“Fine,” Kuroo snapped, voice sharp like the knife twisting in his gut. He heard Akaashi pause, obviously not expecting such a venomous response.

His boyfriend’s voice was cautious when he spoke again. “If you don’t feel well…”

“I feel fine,” he muttered, forcing himself to calm down. Akaashi’s silence was unsure, and Kuroo took a moment to consider the fact that he’d stumped the boy who always had an answer. Maybe this was all going to be one big snowball of an event that would rip everything to shreds even thinner than the first time.

Akaashi finally drew in a long and quiet breath. “You—,”

“Keiji,” Kuroo pleaded quietly. “I just don’t feel well. I’ll make up the exam, I just really need some quiet right now.”

He heard a small exhale and shoved down the guilt at having been able to lie to smoothly to somebody who normally couldn’t be tricked.

“Alright.” Akaashi shifted the laptop off of Kuroo’s back and onto the bedside table with a soft thud. “Do you need anything, before I go? I have a class that I can’t miss, but Kenma will be home in half an hour…”

The uncertainty in Akaashi’s voice wasn’t hesitance from being snapped at, Kuroo knew. He’d long since caught on that Kuroo didn’t have any kind of stomach bug, and was probably only debating whether or not he should really go to his class. Kuroo wished that he wouldn't worry. He wished that Akaashi wouldn't spend his time fretting over things that Kuroo couldn't even talk about, he wished that Akaashi didn't feel worried at all, he wished that he weren't the one causing the worry. He wished that none of this had happened in the first place, and maybe then he would be at his class and he would be taking his exam and Akaashi wouldn't be here now, _worrying_ because of  _him._

“I’ll be okay,” Kuroo promised softly, fingers tracing the place where the bruise had been from where he hid under his load of blankets. “Good luck on your exam.”

Akaashi hummed once, and the door creaked again as he disappeared. Kuroo curled in on himself when he heard the sound, eyes slipping shut and fingers moving to the scar on the bridge of his nose.

They knew, of course. Kenma had told them at one point or another, and while Kuroo wasn’t entirely sure how concise or blunt he’d been while he explained, Kuroo did know that they were _aware_. Kenma knew, of course, because he’d watched the messy slopes downwards and upwards, the bouts of progress and relapse. He hadn’t been there, hadn’t ever been informed of the first-hand accounts, but he’d heard from other sources what had happened. He’d waited for Kuroo to tell him, Kuroo knew, but Kuroo had never been able to work up the nerve. He hadn’t ever been able to get the words to leave his lips or his fingers to type the story. Not to anybody else.

He told the story to himself in the dark sometimes, putting care into describing the greens of the trees and the smell of bonfire in the background, into the blackness that had taken over and the clarity of his thoughts. He couldn’t remember the spans of time directly before or after. His memory went from a moment of calm directly into the fray of fear and straight into the blood and crying afterwards.

Had he been afraid, Kuroo wondered, of what was going to happen? Had he known something was about to happen moments before it had? How had he managed to get out and away from the danger that had harmed everybody else? How had he managed to get on his feet and start running?

Kuroo shoved his face back into his pillow and screamed for what felt like years.

The tenseness continued clawing in his chest.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Kenma came home early, and Kuroo knew that Akaashi had texted him. He had probably only warned Kenma that Kuroo wasn’t feeling well and to check on him, but Kenma had come home early anyway.

The door creaked open slowly for a moment before the noise paused, and Kenma must have slipped in through the small crack to avoid making any more sound. He tugged the blankets back without any mercy, thin eyes boring into Kuroo’s with the expression of somebody trying to put together a puzzle using only their mind.

The blankets fell back onto the bed with a gentleness, and Kuroo yawned. Kenma frowned.

“Keiji said you’re sick.” It’s not a question.

Kuroo turned to press to smother himself in the pillow once more. “Stomach bug.”

“You’re not sick.” it was amazing how alike Akaashi and Kenma sounded when they disapproved of something. 

Kuroo didn’t reply, head swimming with the image of crushed metal and blood staining grass.

Kenma huffed, lifting up the blankets again to slip in next to Kuroo. Kuroo wriggled, making room, and closed his eyes once more. Something lit up the darkness, and Kuroo waited for a several beats before he heard the familiar tune of a game that Kenma seemed to play endlessly.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~~ ~ ~

 By the time that Bokuto returns home with his usual cacophony of an arrival, Kuroo has progressed all the way to the couch. Something played on the TV and Kuroo ignored it, slouching into the couch and letting his eyes focus on everything and nothing at the same time. The series of thuds that meant that Bokuto was home drew him out of his head, eyes focusing back in on the boring documentary and head swiveling to greet him.

“Hey.” Kuroo tucked his foot underneath him to try and chase away some of the cold that was coming with the onset of winter.

“Hey, hey, hey!” Bokuto grinned at him, dropping one last back onto the ground with a muffled thud. “I _totally_ nailed that exam!”

“That’s great, Bo,” Kuroo replied honestly. “You worked really hard on that, of course you passed.”

“Man, I _hate_ exams. Everybody’s always busy and it’s no fun. I’m _glad_ they’re almost over. How did yours go? It was over basic stuff today, right?”

Kuroo hummed once. “Just basic reviews and things today.”

“He didn’t go.” Kenma’s voice held the same disapproving tone as before as he appeared in the doorway, laptop tucked under one arm and their cat in the other. The cat didn’t look pleased to be held in such a way. “But he won’t admit he’s not feeling well.”

Kuroo’s eyes met Kenma’s for a beat, and there was a meaning lingering in the words that he chose to ignore.

“ _Well_ you won’t get better if you don’t rest a bunch! The exams can get figured out later.”

Bokuto continued talking, gesticulating and moving as he spoke. Kuroo tuned out, eyes losing their focus again for a moment.

_What did you do in the moments that you can’t remember? Was it terrible? Is that why you won’t let yourself remember? Did you help him? Is that why he waved?_

“Man, are you even _listening?_ ”

“Yeah, yeah,” Kuroo replied offhandedly. “Sleep is important when you’re sick.”

Kenma’s eyes squinted, nose scrunching up, but he didn’t object. Bokuto launched directly back into his speech, apparently satisfied with the answer.

“Bo,” Kuroo interrupted. “Just come and sit, alright? That’ll help.”

Bokuto was always warm. He was like a heater, making everything warm wherever he went. His hands were warm when they worked their way into Kuroo’s and his side was warm when Kuroo sank into it. The TV changes from the boring documentary to a show they’d been watching together for the past couple of months. Neither entirely ever understood what was happening, but it was interesting and long. Kenma joined them, settling into Bokuto’s other side and placing his arm on Bokuto’s stomach so that his hand could reach Kuroo’s free one.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

He pretended to fall asleep on the couch that night, insisting to himself that it was because he was lazy, not because he didn’t want to know how he’d handle the tightness and warmth and touch that he’d loved about falling asleep with them before.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“You still don’t feel well?” Akaashi hovered in the doorway to the living room, face expressionless except for the dollop of concern that he allowed to filter into his eyes.

“No.” Kuroo buried his face back into the blankets, noting the way that his breath felt hot when it was trapped in the confines of the quilts. “Not really.”

“Do you have a fever?”

“Dunno. Haven’t checked.”

_It had been hot that day, too. The air smelled like fresh-cut grass and nobody’s hair had been anywhere near tame. It had been the kind of hot that made cicadas scream in the summertime, the kind of hot that made everything in the distance look like steam over a pot._

“Well, you should check and make sure it’s nothing serious, then.”

“I’m fine.”

_Her sweat had mixed with her tears and her tears had mixed with the blood dribbling down her face._

“Have you eaten anything? You won’t help yourself by trying to get better on an empty stomach.”

“Not hungry.”

_The heat had made the blood dry into the concrete almost the second that it dripped off the bridge of her nose, and she’d whimpered at the pain of it all._

“Kuroo.”

_Kuroo hadn’t really done anything at all. He’d let somebody else handle it, taking off his shirt and pressing it to the wound and telling her to stay calm. Nobody told her that they had seen right to her skull. They had all assured her that it wasn’t bad._

“You can talk to us.”

_It was bad._

“About what?” He mumbled unconvincingly.

“About this.” There was a quiet insistence in the tone of his boyfriend’s voice. “You can talk to us. We’ll listen. Or don’t talk; you don’t have to. But at least admit that something’s wrong. You won’t help anybody by calling it a flu.”

The room was quiet, and Kuroo was glad for it. His hand twitched under the blankets.

“Don’t try and handle it by yourself,” Akaashi chided him gently. “You’re bad at pretending. There’s no point, anyway. Not in a house full of people who love you.”

“I can’t,” he whispered into the quiet room. “I don’t want to talk.”

“Then don’t.” Akaashi was patient, Kuroo knew. But surely that patience was finite as everything else. “Just let us help. Don’t talk about what happened, just tell us what helps and what doesn’t.”

“Nothing helps,” he countered flatly.

“Then you’ve never tried.” The blanket was pulled off of his head and a hand worked through his hair instead.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~~ ~

Akaashi had told the other two, of course. Kuroo may have considered the idea that he wouldn’t (for whatever reason) and they could all just go on pretending like nothing had switched like a flip in his head at all.

But of course he told them, and the proof came in the fact that Kenma clambered onto the couch with him after his classes.

“What happened?” He asked, tone neutral and question concise.

Kuroo didn’t reply for a long stretch of beats, and Kenma took that as initiative to elaborate.

“You were doing well, and now you’re relapsing. What happened? Before class yesterday,” Kenma prompted, not taking no for an answer. Fragility wouldn’t help a thing; Kenma knew better than to tread lightly like Kuroo’s mental state was the ground and it was covered in glass and thorns.

“I saw him.” Kuroo breathed, mind remembering the dyed-blue hair and heart pounding at the thought of chocolate brown eyes. “He waved.”

**_Why_ ** _did he wave?_

“Did he know you? He may have just not remembered where he knew you from,” Kenma reasoned, tone still calm and face still settled with the same expression that it always was. Kenma internalized everything, and while Kuroo could usually pick up on the little things that showed through, he couldn’t then.

“Why did he wave?” Kuroo wasn’t unaware of the rasp in his voice, knew that he sounded saner in his head than he did trying to voice the thoughts in words that he struggled to push out.

“Kuroo,” Kenma replied, settling his head on Kuroo’s chest.

“Don’t look for an answer that’s not there.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~~  ~ ~ ~ ~

Kuroo managed to stay home for a week before Akaashi marched in and made him go back to his classes, going on and on about how important it was not to miss them, especially right now with the exams. He made Kuroo shower, but didn’t comment when he left in the baggiest hoodie he’d managed to find and a random pair of jeans. He didn’t particularly _care._ He hesitated, hand lingering on the door as if he would open it and _he_ would be standing there. If Kuroo went out, would they run into each other again? Would they start seeing each other all round?

There was a soft jangling of keys behind him and Akaashi’s hand brushed Kuroo’s.

“I remembered I had to ask my professor a question,” Akaashi lied smoothly, opening the door and waiting for Kuroo on the other side like it was that easy.

It was that easy.

Akaashi’s campus was in the other direction, but Kuroo didn’t point it out when they walked the entire way there to Kuroo’s together. He would walk _back_ by himself, but he supposed he would worry about that then. They’d spoken the entire way there as if nothing at all had changed the past week, like it hadn’t taken two seconds for Kuroo’s memory to delete all the progress it had made over the years. All it took was one pair of brown eyes and tan skin and a short, messy beard and his head was back in the chaos of memories that he’d discarded so long ago and fears that he’d forgotten to be afraid of.

But they’d walked there and it had felt like it always had, and they’d talked the same way that they’d always talked. They said goodbye like there wasn’t any reason for Akaashi walking all the way there, and Kuroo had gone in to the lecture hall how he would have any other day.

It was like any other day.

The only difference was that he was going to have to work a little bit harder than usual.

(On the walk back, he kept his eyes glued to the ground and didn’t look up for anything.)  

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

It was amazing just how much managed to set him off. There were certain things that would induce a little memory and a sick feeling in his gut, but they were tamable and manageable, so he could easily discard them. Little things, like doors that creaked or feet skidding on gravel or crying—things that didn’t hold any correlation at all, but sent his mind someplace where he wasn’t. A girl would cry over a breakup on the side of the street and his mind would jump somewhere else, to a girl who cried while blood ran down her face and fear gripped her like a vice and he didn’t do _anything_ to help, just let her sit there and cry while somebody else took charge.

_She’s crying, he hurt her, where’s the blood, how bad is she hurt, I didn’t do anything to help her._

It’s only a stranger and it’s only a breakup, but his mind can’t seem to comprehend that.

There were things that would make his breathing speed up and his heart pound and his head ache, things like screams from kids playing or blood from even little wounds. Things that shove him back into memories of a boy screaming for help and blood-slicked pavement and red-stained grass and a cracked skull and strangers screaming in pain and fear.

They’re easy to manage. The little things only require him to remind himself that he’d at the store, she’s crying because her boyfriend broke up with her, not because she’s dying. He only needs to think to himself that the door to their room just needs oiling, it’s the room where they’ve spent so much time putting their lives together to make one life with each other, it’s a good place and a good, familiar noise.

(The door doesn’t creak, now. Somebody oiled it.)

And then there was the big things. The things like tires screeching or car horns blaring, the sound of things crashing into brokenness. Dropped cups breaking on hard-wood floor send him into a dizzying panic on the ground and when an agitated driver honks at a boy crossing the street before he’s supposed to he’s clutching Bokuto’s sleeve and trying to see through his blackened vision, and in his head it’s not a careless boy but the moment before everything fell apart, it’s not a cup, it’s the windshield that went through her skull, it’s—

It’s fine. He’s okay.

He pulled himself out of it with help when it got too bad, relaxing into strong arms and against a firm chest, knowing that it wasn’t what it was in his head.

(They always went home when that happened. They would go to dinner and somebody would drop a glass and they’d go home even if they hadn’t even ordered yet, like it would be too stressful to keep going after trying to balance reality and the imaginary place in his mind.)

(It’s a place in his mind. There’s a part of his mind that can’t leave that moment, there’s a part of his mind that lives it over and over again, and he doesn’t know how to make it leave, how to free himself from it.)

(He doesn’t know if he ever will.)

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

**Author's Note:**

> PLEASE NOTE: PTSD and it's symptoms manifest themselves differently in everybody. This is not accurate for everybody dealing with trauma, nor is it accurate for C-PTSD. 
> 
> Tumblr: Aobajosighs


End file.
